


just call it love

by serayume



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Introspection, M/M, POV Miya Atsumu, Post-Time Skip, imagine a fwb setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serayume/pseuds/serayume
Summary: He’s weightless, underneath Sakusa, and it feels like his bones have turned into liquid gold. They’re apart only a meager distance, something a breath could cross and trek within a moment. In this still, Atsumu can feel himself burn along with his fingertips as they chart that what of he’s allowed to touch. These touches were a luxury, so Atsumu savors them, soaks in the pressure of Sakusa’s grip on his thigh before they weaken into soft, ruinous strokes. (It’s strange, how these drifting, whispers of a touch were more devastating than hard presses against skin. It’s strange how this does it for Atsumu, how it feels like his body has adjusted itself to fit Sakusa the best way it can.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 99





	just call it love

Sakusa carries a bevy of languages on his lips and a string of knives on his teeth. They cut sharp and deep and straight to the bone, if you’re not careful. People say if you run bluntly ahead on a road towards him, you might slip and bleed. They say this like it’s a fact, as if it’s carved in stone and comes with a manual with a print of _Guide to Sakusa Kiyoomi_ on the cover, bold and red and on impact.

Atsumu knows why they talk of him like this. He knows why it’s passed along that Sakusa is a cold, untouchable beauty through their circle. He knows why they need this proverbial manual.

It’s easy to rack his brain for an explanation. They surface like a buoy at sea; Sakusa’s clipped replies, the clear disdain on his face that somehow still translates even when half of his features are covered, the several after-kill high fives that he’s refused, all his perfunctory, individual _stay away from me, Miya_ s — honestly, it made him feel special, so he’s actually glad for that, but really. Atsumu could go _on_ _and on._

And as all things go, there’s a _but_ — and here’s Atsumu’s: Sakusa _is_ icy, but recently, in the privacy of dim lights and lax sheets and the thrum of rain on his apartment’s windowpane — Sakusa’s been nothing but _warm_.

The reason comes back to him in hazy waves: he’s weightless, underneath Sakusa, and it feels like his bones have turned into liquid gold. They’re apart only a meager distance, something a breath could cross and trek within a moment. In this still, Atsumu can feel himself _burn_ along with his fingertips as they chart that what of he’s allowed to touch. These touches were a luxury, so Atsumu savors them, soaks in the pressure of Sakusa’s grip on his thigh before they weaken into soft, ruinous strokes. (It’s strange, how these drifting, whispers of a touch were more devastating than hard presses against skin. It’s strange how _this_ does it for Atsumu, how it feels like his body has adjusted itself to fit Sakusa the best way it can.)

Sakusa, in this moment saved like a playback in Atsumu’s head, was all hover-touches. Phantom ghost like, a teasing tap. He holds Atsumu like he’s fragile, palm splayed on the back of his shirt just nearing the edge, fingers creasing the cloth upwards just the littlest to play a game of push and pull on the plains of his skin — and this is a part of Sakusa that fits the form of warmth; one that fully escapes the space of callous and cold and cutting.

It's easy to get lost in this heat, to the aftermath of Sakusa’s touches, but Atsumu will not lie to you.

He doesn’t know what this means. He doesn’t know how to read the weight of Sakusa’s hand on his back. He doesn’t know what they’re doing this for. Even as he presses his mouth to the moles on Sakusa’s forehead, traces the sheen of his sweat with his tongue down to where they pool at his collarbone, even as he takes in all of him — he still does not know what it means for the both of them. He doesn’t have an idea of where they’re taking themselves, but he pushes in relentlessly, throwing away the gathering cast of doubts. Sakusa never really seemed sure, either. Why should he trouble himself?

Funny, really, how he says this, for during nights where the moon hangs low on the backdrop of the sky, when Sakusa lets out a low breath and a whisper of _“Sleep.”_ as he murmurs it into Atsumu’s hair, soft-spoken and vulnerable — Atsumu fools himself into thinking this is love.

Because during mornings where Atsumu wakes up to two mugs of coffee and two platters of eggs instead of one, during afternoons where they spend the hours before sunset huddled together hiding from the lights filtering through the blinds, with his heart feeling like it’s doing a somersault in his chest collapsing into an exercise of sensation, Atsumu cannot help but think, traitorously: _What is this, if it isn’t love?_

His mind, just as treacherous, whispers back: _Craving_. _Momentary_ _relief_. _Dependency_. _A substitute for the love you’ve both been denied through the years._

Atsumu will not lie to you. He knows this isn’t love. But in the privacy of his thoughts, he calls this something as tender, so he doesn’t break.

(You see, Atsumu may not lie to you, but he can lie to himself.)

So he takes this, soaks in Sakusa’s low murmurs down to the shape of his waist, relishes in the scarce kisses on the corner of his mouth. He bathes himself in touches that are much too close of an aborted motion to be marked as a caress, yet just a line over intimacy to be branded chaste.

Atsumu takes this — this not-love mold of their bodies, folds until he fits the shape of Sakusa’s embrace, and lets himself wither in his hold.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to make this longer n even more dramatic but my hands are traitors. anyway, i hope you all enjoyed this !!! title's from _sore wo ai to yobudake_ by mafumafu, which literally means just call it love.


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